“You got no business here.”

Caleb said, “She looks like my business now.”

The man smiled.

It was not a friendly smile.

“That belongs to Mr. Crane.”

Caleb’s face changed.

Not much.

But enough.

The girl whispered, “Please.”

The rider lowered the shotgun.

Caleb fired first.

His bullet struck the gun barrels, knocking the weapon sideways. The rider cursed and fired wildly. Shot tore through the cottonwood.

Caleb closed the distance before the man could reload.

He dragged him from the saddle.

They hit the ground hard.

The stranger drove an elbow into Caleb’s jaw, rolled, and reached for a knife. Caleb caught his wrist. They struggled in the dust, boots digging trenches, each man trying to put the blade into the other.

The stranger hissed, “You don’t know what you’re protecting.”

Caleb slammed his forehead into the man’s nose.

Cartilage cracked.

The knife fell.

Caleb hit him twice more.

The second punch ended it.

For several seconds, Caleb knelt over the unconscious man, breathing through his nose.

Then he stood.

The girl was frozen beside the tree.

“You hurt?”

She shook her head.

Caleb searched the rider.

Inside the man’s coat he found twenty-seven dollars, cartridges, a brass key, and a silver token stamped with a black crane standing over the number 12.

He looked toward the girl.

At the sight of the token, all the color left her face.

“Where’d you see this?”

She whispered, “Everywhere.”

Caleb walked back to her.

When he lifted his coat from her shoulders just enough to check the torn fabric, something crackled beneath the lining.

The girl seized his wrist.

“No.”

“I’m not touching you.”

“That’s not—”

She stopped.

Then looked toward the unconscious rider.

Her fear changed.

Decision replaced it.

“Cut the seam.”

Caleb drew his knife and carefully slit the dress lining.

A folded sheet of paper fell into his hand.

He opened it.

At first, he thought it was an account ledger.

Then he read the first line.

Martha Bell — 16 — $90.

Below it:

Elise Carter — 19 — $125.

Nora Winn — 14 — $70.

Helen Graves — 22 — $110.

There were dozens.

Names.

Ages.

Prices.

Some entries had locations beside them.

Others had one word.

Delivered.

Caleb stopped breathing.

Near the bottom of the first page, one name turned his blood cold.

Annie Mercer — 23 — $150.

The dead woman from Wyoming.

The woman he had failed.

For eleven years Caleb had believed Annie Mercer had been killed by a drifter seeking revenge against her husband.

The list said otherwise.

The girl stared at him.

“You know one?”

Caleb folded the paper.

His voice came out rough.

“More than one.”

Because further down was another name.

Sarah Horn — 18 — $200.

His younger sister.

The sister who had vanished seventeen years ago.

The sister his father said had run away.

Caleb looked toward the horizon.

He suddenly felt as though the entire desert had tilted beneath him.

They rode until sundown.

Caleb placed the unconscious rider over his own saddle, tied securely, and led both horses south toward a hunting cabin abandoned years ago in the foothills.

The girl said little.

When Caleb finally asked her name, she hesitated before answering.

“Ruth.”

“Last name?”

“Bell.”

Caleb looked at her.

“Martha Bell is on that list.”

Ruth’s expression hardened.

“My sister.”

He said nothing after that.